


This Is How It Is Going To Be

by darktreesbigvoices



Category: Mission: Impossible, Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Luther's a good friend., Panic Attacks, Trust Issues, but he isn't there yet because no Julia, ethan is learnninnnggggg, ethan is manic, only Luther
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:42:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28775523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darktreesbigvoices/pseuds/darktreesbigvoices
Summary: Six months after MI1, Ethan is not doing so well.
Kudos: 7





	This Is How It Is Going To Be

**Author's Note:**

> This is very, very loosely based on the kind of (let's call it behavioral) notes that I have been noticing in TC's interviews and interactions (Opera couch incident). Ethan is not manic depressive, I don't have experience with this kind of stuff, but I have defined it as something triggered by his PTSD/trust issues, a kind of anxiety attack/mania, (if that makes sense).  
> The guy needs hug, is all I'm saying.

Ethan picked up a model motorcycle from it’s shelf, and rolled its wheels over his palm. He was wired and anxious, his heart palpitating in sonorous boomings in his head, his throat thick and tight, slogging through the buzzing in his ears.  
He had to do this.

“How have you been?” Agent Swanbeck asked.

Agent Swanbeck was Ethan’s new superior, and Ethan disliked him in the way a son dislikes a step-father. He knew that it was petty to hate him, and also knew that Jim Phelps was a traitor and would be spending the rest of his days in prison or worse, but he couldn’t help feeling disoriented.  
He had been out of the field for six months.

Swanbeck reached over the desk and held out his hand. “Do you mind giving that back to me? I collect them.”

Ethan hid the model in his hands. “Why do you want to talk to me?”

“Agent Hunt,” Swanbeck said in an infuriatingly kind voice.

“What.” Ethan felt parrotish and scummy. He looked carefully down at his knees. Not only was Swanbeck patronizing him, but he was also trying to pretend like he knew what Ethan was going through, which Ethan was rapidly realizing were two things he hated deeply.

“I have called you in, to ask whether you think you are ready to come back to work.”

“No. No, I don’t.” Ethan said simply.

“Ok.” Agent Swanbeck clapped his hands together and beamed at him. “When do you think would be a good time, Ethan?”

Ethan resented the use of his first name. That was a car salesmen trick, don’t let them get you, never trust anyone. He clenched his hand around the model motorcycle so hard the tiny steering wheel dug painfully into his fingers. He put the model carefully back on the shelf, and stood up. “I’ll get back to you on that, sir.”

“I’ll be calling you tomorrow, Ethan.” Agent Swanbeck said calmly, still beaming.  
Ethan walked out.  
The office was busy today. Ethan threaded his way through the monitors and into the stairwell. Once he was there he could breath. The whole building felt like it was closing in on him. Trap doors closing, locking.  
He would need to walk six flights to get down to ground level, but it was preferable to the treacherous elevator. The elevator has been demoted to the level of Swanbeck in Ethan’s mind. Untrustworthy.

* * *

Sixth to last floor.  
Ethan takes the stairs two at a time, not knowing why but feeling as though he is being chased, pursued hotly.  
Fifth to last floor.  
Ethan slows, looking behind him, up the stairwell, every other step.  
Fourth to last floor.  
Ethan sits down on the steps.  
It is very cold, in the stairwell. Concrete. No windows. A angrily buzzing bulb, caged. The walls are immaculately grey.  
Ethan swallows air. He is sweating and cold. His hands feel dirty, like greasy pennies, or a handle on a front door, or unknown silverware. He rubs his fingers against the back of his neck, across the top of his spine, but the feeling keeps coming, rushing upwards like a wave, and he can’t breathe.  
He can’t breathe for a long time.  
What he is feeling is not grief, or even remorse. It is angry and heavy in his chest. Ethan wipes his face and his arm is wet. He sniffs deeply and hides his face against his knees.  
Everyone is dead because of him. It hits him suddenly, and there is a certain, small relief too. He can name it.  
It is guilt.  
Ethan walks slowly down the third and second floors, concentrating on the stairs and taking the steps evenly. At the very bottom he looks up. Everything is a grey and beige haze. He pushes the fire escape door open violently and strides across the lobby and into the winter of New York.  
To his left, someone is screaming. To his right, there is a line at a hot-dog cart. Cars honk. The snow obscures his vision, opaquing everything. White things. A surge of people cross the street. The smell of wet pennies and piss. Ice melt crunches under his feet. He takes out his gloves after a few blocks and pulls them on. Is he going to walk all the way home? He might.  
Ethan wonders. He does not see where he is going. A sudden and highly intriguing energy vibrates inside his skull. He can barely stand still. He can barely think in coherent sentences, much less speak. He feels possessed.  
He finds himself sometime later, standing on 5th Avenue. Christmas lights, a blinding amount, blink and flicker all up and down the store fronts. People ohh and ahh around him, children squeal and run to press their noses to the windows. He is one of the crowd.  
Ethan tries to remember why you are supposed to find a collection of lights interesting. The people around him (so many people) stare rapturously at the lights, talking in loud voices to match the cars. Most of them are in groups, or families. Ethan realizes this, and immediately looks around for someone to pair up with, but no one volunteers. It would be strange if he just picked someone out. He walks away from the lights and the people.  
It gets dark. The snow thickens. It gets colder. There are less and less people on the end of 5th Avenue.  
Ethan is staring fixedly at the red light, waiting for it to turn white, and someone pulls up in a nondescript white Bug alongside the curb. The window rolls down. Ethan edges away. He is walking away, maybe home, maybe not. Someone calls after him. He ducks his head down and focuses on the end of the block, intent on his goal, when someone lays a hand on his shoulder. Ethan has enough time to turn around and ball his fist, his face snarling and ugly like a wild animal.  
But it is Luther.

“What’re you doing out?” Luther asks, kindly, insanely. “It’s one in the morning, y’know.”

Ethan doesn’t not have words.

Luther eyes him as if Ethan has called him something highly offensive. “You’re not gonna stay out here, are you?”

Ethan is still speechless.  
Luther finally starts to walk away. He turns after a few feet and comes back for Ethan, putting a protective hand on his shoulder, steering him into the back seat. “You’re coming back to my place. You’re alright with that?” He steps back, giving Ethan room to walk away.

“Yes.” Ethan chokes out. Luther nods shortly and slams the door.

It is warmer in the car. The backseat smells like leather. Ethan crosses his arms tightly over his chest, meaning to stay vigilant, but the energy has left him in the last hour. He leans his head cautiously against the seat. Every one of his instincts tell him to get out of the car. How does he know he can trust Luther? He might be leading him, at the moment, to destruction. He might be working for the other side. But gradually, as the bug cruises placidly through the streets, Ethan relaxes enough to watch the houses slide by. There are tenements, brownstones. Almost all are adorned with lights or yard decorations.

* * *

Luther’s “place” is a nondescript figure on the corner of a forest of two story condos. He has to jimmy the key in the lock before it opens into the foyer. His apartment is permitted by the smell of ham and brown sugar, it’s windows large, it’s colors warm and bright.

“Maybelline decorated the place for me." Luther says, as if embarrassed.

“Is that her real name?” Ethan asks.

“No.”

Ethan wonders if this means Luther’s mother (or girlfriend or wife) either knows about Luther’s day job, or is a stripper. Both options are intriguing to him, but he is too tired to ask. He takes off his coat and holds it in his arms. His bones feel like water, and his head feels like mud.  
What a long way he has come from just six months ago.  
In the day room there is a fold out bed, which Luther makes up, and even this small favor makes Ethan feel like he is going to cry, like he could never make it up to him.  
Admitting he is helpless.  
The lost of control.  
He hates it.

“Goodnight.” Luther says. “You need rest, Ethan.” As if rest was a medication Ethan had a pharmacy appointment for.

When he leaves, leaving the light on; Ethan sits in a chair, feeling as though the bed is too good for him, with his head in his hands. Then, after he checks his watch and sees that it is four in the morning, he gets into the bed, turning off the light.

* * *


End file.
